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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The bottle of wine lay on the ground dripping frantically onto the ground, slowly pouring out the remnants of its livelihood onto the hardwood floor. The puddle of wine gained mass and the slight force of gravity on the minutely uneven floor caused the circle of red to trickle towards the white apron. The apron was balled up into a makeshift pillow under the head of Leroy Smolsky. He lay fast asleep upon the apron with his hands between his legs and the backs of his calves squished firmly against the backs of his thighs. He lay in a scrumpled ball on the floor, trying to conserve warmth as he slept. The wine menace snuck its way across the landscape to reach its inevitable target. The terrain between the wine and the man-ball was littered with crumpled paper, beer bottles, clothing and cigar butts. The wine precariously flittered around various objects as the path of lowest potential energy revealed itself. The puddle of wine was becoming a river. The initial pool now transformed into a tributary of terrible taint. The dark red stream oozing ever closer to the poor unsuspecting buffoon who snored quietly amidst a forest of garbage. The odd banana peel gave the floor an even dirtier feeling. Not to mention the lone piece of half-eaten pizza that was a Germany distance away from the relative North America that was Leroy. The ever persistent wine kept its snakelike action as it began to branch into multiple streams, dictated by the slight imperfections in the floor. The tiniest of deviations from a planar state in the floor caused the wine to follow its course. Leroy could always blame the floor or even the man who installed the hardwood or even the architect who designed the building or even the school that trained the architect or even the country that built the school or even the world that created the country or even...who was left? No one, I'm sure but let's continue. Where were we? Ah yes, the wine. Inching its way closer, the wine was now on the threshold of Leroy's personal space. Like a wooden horse at the gates of Troy, the wine now approached the event horizon created by Leroy's body. The overweight man caused a distortion in the floor's existence. The floor became bent around his body, due to his mass. This was part of the reason that the wine flowed toward him. He was to blame after all! His existence itself was the cause to his misfortune! A breakthrough! But alas, Leroy is ever on the floor. With the wine perched on the verge of soaking into the white apron inevitably waking Leroy up, causing him to swear loudly, causing the woman in his bed to stir, causing her to question her location and ponder how she got there, causing Leroy to remember the previous night just seconds after the woman in his bed did, causing a furious fight that fosters hatred in both parties, causing Leroy to do something he regrets, causing Leroy to distort the world around him, causing all the problems in the world to cascade down upon him like a waterfall of agony, causing him to wake up and swear loudly, causing him to start the cycle again.

There's Leroy, all alone on the floor. Two disasters about to befall him. Mayhaps if the boisterous and arrogant neighbour, Richmond were to knock on the door at just the right time. In his swede sport coat, elegantly faded jeans and designer shoes Richmond could put an end to all of this. He could check his watch and see the time is 8:54am and decide to grab a coffee before he ventures out into the world. The sunlight would stream into his apartment, it would sneak its way around dust in the air in a fraction of a second. An onslaught of photons would set the stage for this drama as Richmond checked his sugar tin and realized he was out of the white, crystalline substance. Here it is, the potential redemption of the mess next door. Richmond's apartment stands in stark contrast to his neighbour's. The very definition of order is personified by Richmond's apartment. After all, without order, what are we?

Richmond never knows how vital his role is. How he could save everything. It is not known. Does it happen?

Does Leroy ever wake up? More importantly, can he wake up without the wine staining the apron?

He is doomed, his salvation rests on a well-dressed man's dietary desires. His damnation rests in the crimson swirls on his floor, creeping like the hand of Death to grab him and drag him to Hell. His salvation and end also lie in the olive and pearl-white entanglement in his bed. A slender leg and a mash of cotton contained in a silk sheet. He was never the instrument of his own salvation. He is always the tool of his demise. He is always on the floor. He is caught amidst the chaos that surrounds him. He hears and sees nothing relating to the man next door, the woman in the next room. There is no sound. There breathing is silenced over the torrential roar of the wine, dripping onto the floor, making a mess.